Young Writers Society

Brooklynn Noelle Walters. 5’7, blonde hair, expressive crystal blue eyes.

By that description, people might say I’m a beautiful young girl with a beautiful, modern name.

Too bad that’s all bullshit.

The first time I skipped an insulin shot, I was eleven…I was embarrassed, I was growing and I was sick and tired of diabetes.

It was the first day of middle school. Middle school. The years where people have both baby fat and boobs. When you aren’t really sure if boys have cooties or not. You’re too old to play with dolls, too young to date and too immature to be trusted. Add in diabetes and a little self consciousness and you have a recipe for disaster.

I had been completely insistent that I would handle it on my own and not go to the nurse every day. So, come lunch time, in the bottom of my lunch box, surrounded by ice packs, was an insulin shot waiting for me. My sugar had been good all morning, running between 90 and 150. Normal is 70-120, but my screwy pancreas has a different range. I sat down with my friends, starting eating and talking—when I realized I hadn’t done my shot. I needed my shot to keep my blood sugar down and digest my food.

I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I could jab myself with a needle, no problem. But doing it in front of half a dozen kids who don’t even know I have diabetes? Screaming out “Hey! This is insulin, I’m gonna shoot up now!”

Um, hell no.

So I kept eating, with every intention of doing it later. I forgot, and paid the price.

All that afternoon I struggled with the effects of blood sugar in the high 400’s: I couldn’t focus, I had a killer headache and wanted nothing more than to guzzle the entire contents of the Great Lakes. And this went on until almost 9 PM that night. I didn’t want to do that again.

But I didn’t want to be different. Now that I had proved to my parents I could handle diabetes, most of the responsibility was in my hands. They gave more attention to my then three year old sister Katie and baby sister Delany. It was on my shoulders…I was old enough. I was supposed to test my blood sugar up to 10-12 times a day—I did 3-6. I was getting sick of being sick, and I wasn’t going to handle it anymore.

However, for about a week after missing my shot, I was a good girl. I tested more (in between classes), took all my shots (in the bathroom if I was at school). My friends started getting suspicious of why I went into the restroom so much. I started getting paranoid. Everyone says middle school is a new beginning. I always told myself. This is the year I can be bigger than diabetes and let people know who I really am.

It was great on paper...too bad I sacrificed my health to do it. A wicked case of burnout struck me again. I had no motivation to be healthy—all I wanted was to fit in. This was my chance. I couldn’t let it pass me by. I went back to skipping my lunch dose, and gave a bunch of correction shots at home, trying to play catch up. I almost got used to the afternoons of exhaustion and nausea. Then, there were more than a few days I’d forget to cover for breakfast in my rush to get out the door. Sometimes I didn’t eat at all, which left me shaking like a leaf as I hastily tried to count quarters and buy an OJ out of the vending machine. Other times I might forget my long acting insulin and be high overnight. I didn’t really care! I was sick all the time, but still lacked motivation to be healthy.

My social life, however, was incredible. I got invited to movies, dances, and football games with a large group of popular girls. About half of my friends had a boyfriend. Those that didn’t either pined for one, or spent their time fixing immature, broken hearts. Life for us was all about trading cell numbers, lip gloss, and gossip. I was just trying to keep my head above water.

This went on, until a wicked glucose spike on Halloween. I got home, stripped off my cat costume, and threw up in the bathroom. I took a large correction shot and cried. I decided to stop harming my body and lying to myself. I would go back to taking care of myself like I should.

After two days back on my regular regimen, I’d gained almost five pounds. I remember looking in the mirror, disgusted at what I saw. My dehydrated cells took up that dose of insulin and I blew up like a balloon. Water weight. I looked pregnant. I looked FAT. I was FAT. Already super uncomfortable with my ever-changing body, I was scared to death to gain weight. I was a good size, until the insulin added it on.

So the slacking began again, only worse. I skipped my lunchtime shot out of pure embarrassment, and reduced all my doses. At school, on the outside, I had it all together. I was one of the prettiest girls in the school, with a group of reliable girlfriends. I got good grades (so people thought). But really, I felt sick all the time. I fought through exhaustion and headaches on a daily basis. I cried myself to sleep at night. I lied to my parents about where my blood sugar readings were, and if they looked through my meter I would insist it was just an off day…not that there were many readings to look at.

Five years ago, all hell broke loose.

And today, I feel just as bad. I’m exhausted, thirsty, and sick. I need to correct, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Dad’s still at work and Mom has gone to pick up the girls from school, so I get on the computer. My first stop? Facebook’s diabulimia awareness page. All 437 of us know what it’s like—the horror and the temptation to play with your insulin to lose weight. We’re all at different points in recovery and there for a pick-me-up. I’d be nowhere without them right now.

Hey girls. Just got home from school. I type. First day of junior year. A year and a half since I became committed to healing…and I slipped up. Been taking my insulin like a good girl all month. Today I forgot to hit the button that confirms my bolus. Ten minutes later, it beeped and asked me if I wanted to continue. I said no. and I cried. And now I can’t bring myself to correct…I’ve just drank my weight in water. I fucking hate diabetes. I love you guys…hugs my way tonight?

Almost instantly the comments came in from two of the girls closest to me. “Don’t give up honey, it’s not your fault technology is an ass. You’ve been doing so well. Take a correction and get some rest love.” “Go ahead and take it…you know how good you’ll feel.”

Tears brimming in my eyes again, I dig for my pump and give myself two units. That stupid little insulin-filled box is always attached to me, twenty-three hours a day, seven days a week. The only time I can take it off is when I shower. It’s just a constant reminder of what I have to live with every single day. Diabetes sucks.